As a young college student no longer under the constant care of my parents, I reveled in my ability to do the things I wanted. Bedtimes, diets and study habits were all up to my discretion- the only limits being the lack of steady income.
I’ve always loved travel, and no longer needing my parents’ say-so, my spirit of adventure came alive when my buddy, Josh, invited me to watch NHL hockey games around the country.
Our wanderlust didn’t match our travel budget. We became experts at public transportation, splitting gas money, staying at cheap hostels, using frequent-flier miles, and crashing on airport benches.
But we stumbled upon the holy grail of cheap bachelor travel when we discovered couchsurfing.com.
The concept was simple: You sign up to let strangers sleep for free on your couch, and in return you are allowed to sleep for free on strangers' couches elsewhere.
This was pre-AirBnB, and although the concept may sound a little strange today, in 2010 it was akin to inviting Jeffrey Dahmer, Hannibal Lecter, and your mother-in-law over for dinner. Nothing may happen, but why in the world would you not just pay the $50 a night to be assured you weren't murdered, eaten or criticized the entire time?
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The idea was for no money to change hands, and couchsurfing.com was to be self-policing. You are looking for a couch, that’s all. And your host is the type that will sleep on the couches of strangers.
I hadn’t heard of any gruesome murders connected to couchsurfing, but I was nervous about possible vulnerabilities. Josh had signed into couchsurfing a few months earlier, and his couch had accommodated a steady stream of drifters and hitchhikers across central Nebraska. He accepted only requests from profiles with flawless reviews, and never revealed his home address. Instead, he would pick up his guests at the Conestoga Mall parking lot. There may have been some awkward moments, but never any real danger. As a result, Josh’s own couchsurfing.com street cred was fairly substantial.
But since my name was lacking from the couchsurfing.com data base, it was difficult to find trusting host couches for our hockey trips.
As a result, when we arrived in Raleigh, North Carolina with no place to stay, Josh was scolded for bringing a friend and creating a security concern. That night we dipped into our meager financial reserves for a hotel room.
But in Atlanta, we found a host who had no problem accepting my shaky credentials.
After my first experience with Atlanta’s public bus system, we were deposited into a dark neighborhood illuminated by a single orange-glaring streetlamp. We had an address in hand which Josh felt was a little strange; this wasn’t the way that he handled things when he hosted couchsurfers. We followed our smart phone’s directions and located a dimly lit, worn-out house.
Josh gave me the basic overview of how a typical such interaction works: There is a greeting, followed by some general conversation about who you are, what you're up to, and any philosophical ramblings that seem appropriate for the audience.
Then, the host leaves you for rest of the night, with the general understanding that you will fall asleep on the couch.
That’s it.
Nothing crazy is supposed to happen. Shouldn’t happen. Hopefully, isn’t going to happen.
We knocked on the door, and it slowly opened.
Our host met us, gave us the lay of the land, and alluded to his minimalist sensibilities. He spoke slowly and deliberately; carefully calculating each word. He said he had a roommate who was gone. He had never hosted before but had used the service extensively in his own travels. He was excited to host. He said he had always wanted to host. He didn’t seem to know a lot about the house, which he blamed on the absent roommate. All the furnishings seemed foreign to him. He said they were owned by the roommate. The roommate who wasn’t there. The roommate whose presence was as empty as my couchsurfing.com profile.
The wooden floorboards creaked with each step as we were escorted to where we would be spending the night. Our host asked if we needed anything. Josh said he was fine, and I asked for a blanket. He was happy to oblige. He fetched a folded, worn-out comforter and put it at the foot of my couch.
Bidding us good-night, he said if we needed anything, his bedroom is just upstairs, and he slowly retreated. He said he wouldn’t be far. He’s close-by.
I unfolded the blanket, laid down and covered up, drawing the hem under my chin. True, the comforter is kind of dingy, I thought to myself, but it will keep me warm. But after fluffing the blanket while getting settled, I became aware of a faint, unpleasant scent of decay, or mildew, or something.
But worse, a stronger smell began to waft up that was quickly becoming an actual stink.
"Josh, do you smell that?"
"Uhh, what?"
I fluffed my blanket again, pushing up a fresh puff of tainted air toward him.
"Do you smell that?”
“Uh, no...?"
Over the next few puffs blown his way, he repeatedly denied the stench’s existence.
"Something smells like dog shit, like actual poop from a dog. Do you smell that?"
But Josh remained adamant in his denial.
Now, I am not an overly pretentious man, and encountering pet feces, dog or cat or any other mammal, usually wouldn’t bother me. But, dammit, it’s a different story when you’re trying to fall asleep on the couch of a complete stranger.
I tried to force the shit smell out of my mind, I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep if I dwelled too long on where it came from. Or what it came from. Or who it came from.
I gave up trying to solve the mystery. Something told me I would need my energy, and I tried to go to sleep.
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A few hours later, Josh and I woke up around the same time. We began talking through our day’s plans. Josh left the room and I began collecting my things and making my bed. I decided to refold the loaned blanket as neatly as I found it. I didn’t want to upset anyone.
Then, the odor mystery was solved.
As I was shaking that blanket, a poop nugget indelicately fell out, bouncing down my front and landing square on my bare foot.
Let me repeat that last part. Dog shit. From the blanket I had slept in. Fell on my bare foot.
I panicked and danced around shaking the blanket in search for more turds. Thankfully, that was the only one I could find.
As I was collecting my wits, I heard our host coming downstairs. This was bound to be awkward.
My first thoughts were to confront him, but something told me that wouldn’t do me much good. I mean how would that conversation have gone?
“Dude, there was dog shit in the blanket you gave me."
“Yeah, I know.”
I just wanted to get out of there and keep this man at a distance.
I decided Josh could be sacrificed.
Josh was standing in the kitchen, waiting for his oatmeal to absorb the appropriate amount of moisture. I knew his extreme extroversion would mandate that he make small talk with our host. Once the morning greetings commenced, I leapt into action.
First, I needed to dispose of the evidence, which I grabbed in a paper towel and threw in the trash, smearing it on the carpet in the process (yes, it was still moist).
Next, I washed my turd-tainted bare foot in the bathroom sink while my whole body was shaking as if a centipede was crawling down my spine.
I took a moment while locked in the bathroom to compose myself. I put on a brave face, unlocked the door, walked into the kitchen, and greeted everyone.
●●●
By then I was cool as a cucumber, or some other vegetable that isn’t covered in shit. Our host offered us a ride to the airport and Josh, oblivious to this man's propensity to put fecal matter in the things that he shared, quickly accepted.
On the ride, Josh and I made small talk, or no talk, I can't really remember, but the entire time while I sat in the back seat, I could only think to myself, "Josh has no idea that I slept in dog shit last night."
As soon as were safely standing on the curb of the airport with luggage in tow and our driver back on the interstate, I blurted out:
“Dude, there was dog poop in my blanket.”
I had to repeat this a couple more times before he fully understood.
“That smell last night? It was dog shit. Actual dog shit. And I slept in it."
I walked him through my morning adventure, and we took a moment to pause and fully appreciate what had just transpired. Then we caught our flight.
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I have repeated this story to everyone except my parents. It became my go-to, my icebreaker, my attention-grabber, my keep-in-my-back pocket tale.
But even after all these re-tellings, one day something about the events of that morning struck me and shook me to the core:
The entire time we were in the Atlanta house, I never once saw a dog or any other sign of a dog.
It didn’t come from me, honest. You’ve got to believe me.
As Told By C.S. Beaty: Do You Smell That?